Chill of Morning
by Asidian
Summary: The war is taking a toll, and it's the little changes that hurt most. Ike x Soren.


Author's Notes: I have _no_ idea where this came from. I sat down to write something else entirely, and realized, about three paragraphs in, that what I'd planned on was something entirely different from what was happening. And it's wordy. And there are run-ons. -makes a face- 

In any case, though, this is set while Our Heroes are on the march in Daein. No warnings needed, really, unless you missed the pairing heads-up in the summary. Ike x Soren, for those who did. -grin-

* * *

Chill of Morning

* * *

In the early hours of the morning, when the camp was still quiet and the sun crouched waiting below the horizon, the world belonged to Soren alone.

It was a childish thought, and one that the boy was ashamed of from time to time, but it occurred to him at least twice a week, and he took a sort of distant pleasure in the notion. Something about the harsh grey fabric of the tents, bathed golden in the light of his torch, and the dingy, tramped snow that lay between them was soothing to the young tactician, though he understood, objectively, that there shouldn't be.

After all, Ike had complained to him just yesterday about the sight of the white drifts, trampled under the pass of countless dozens of boots. It had come without preamble, in the middle of Soren's warning that unless the troops oiled their bows properly, the weapons wouldn't hold up in weather this cold.

It made him a bit sad, the general had admitted absently, to see the evidence of their passing laid out like that.

And for a moment, Soren had watched his face, watched those incredible blue eyes and the way they traced the lines of the ground below, and wished, irrationally, that he could somehow smooth the footprints away.

It really isn't feasible, he'd pointed out at last, face carefully expressionless, to expect an army to pass without leaving a dent on the land. And Ike had almost laughed, looked as though he _wanted_ to laugh, but perhaps it had caught in his throat, because he'd only smiled wanly, and nodded his agreement, and asked Soren to go on with the report that he hadn't been giving.

But much as the expression that had tried to be a laugh had twisted something inside him, Soren couldn't help the affinity that he felt for the curious, deserted landscape that greeted him each morning. The cold was sharp enough to numb ears and toes fingers, and he'd rarely had enough sleep, and he understood, of course, that somewhere in the camp, someone would be keeping watch.

He wasn't truly the only one awake. Nothing belonged to him at all.

But understanding never seemed to stop the thought from coming, as it did this morning- a quiet whim from the part of him that took pleasure when he'd learned a new spell or sealed a careful list of their newest expenditures into his records of the army's affairs.

Childish, he told himself harshly, as he always did, and pulled aside the flap to the weapons tent, holding the torch down and away so that it had no chance to come into contact with the heavy fabric as he ducked inside.

By the time he had turned to take hold of the candle left habitually beside the door, he had forced it aside entirely; fancies had no place mixed with rational calculations, after all, and Soren had long schooled himself in keeping the two painstakingly separate. In silence, fingers clumsy with the cold fumbled to light the wick wihout burning flesh, and a formidible mind turned ahead to the careful row of notes that needed examination.

When the smaller flame had flickered to life and the torch was extinguished in the snow just beyond the door, brought back within to dry for future use, the young tactician turned at last to the place where he had left both records and pen the night previous.

The step he'd meant to take, however, froze in midair- hovered, uncertain, before being set down once more without having gained an inch.

Because habit had come to instruct him in what would need to be done next- but habitual circumstances did not include the figure of the young man that sat already at the makeshift table in the center of the room.

Soren's first impression was that his friend had woken before him, for once.

Risen in the dark and the cold and made his way along the path that his tactician followed each day, footsteps crunching in the already-ruined snow, breath making delicate white clouds in the frigid air.

It wasn't until the boy approached, mouth forming the beginnings of a greeting, that he saw he'd been wrong.

For Ike wore the previous day's mud-stained trousers, and ink had smudged his cheek, a mark doubtless left as sleep had come, depositing his face against a sheet of freshly-marked notes. The young general had spent the night here- intended to go over their accounts one final time, or perhaps to plot a strategy for the upcoming battle.

Exhaustion, it seemed, had stolen his will.

And Ike looked for all the world as he had when they were younger, rumpled and dirt-spattered, too worn out from a day hard at play to be bothered to find a proper bed.

At the parallel his mind had drawn, something tightened imperceptibly in Soren's throat, and he took that one extra step to stand beside his oldest- his only- friend. The smile that curved gently at the corners of his lips almost hurt.

He didn't need to consider as his fingers reached to fumble numbly with the clasp of his cloak. It was an impulse that ran deeper than thought, and the boy listened to it, forcing hands unfeeling with the cold to perform their task.

He succeeded a moment later, lifting the heavy fabric free before the rational part of his mind had a chance to reconsider. The cloth was still warm with the heat of his body, and the frigid morning air rushed in to fill up the place where it had been.

The tactician shivered as he put it around Ike's shoulders; then, he reached carefully for the pen still clutched loosely in fingers lax with sleep.

-owari-


End file.
